Bones in High Places (20 page)

Ingaza glanced at it indifferently, and then suddenly began to peer more closely. ‘Streuth,’ he breathed, ‘extraordinary.’

‘What is it?’ I asked. He passed me the paper. It was in pencil and looked like a roughly scribbled draft for a letter.

‘What ees meaning of all thees blah?’ asked Henri.

‘Well, old fruit, this blah is what you could call dynamite,’ replied Ingaza thoughtfully. ‘It tells us, for example, that Boris was a sanctimonious, lecherous mountebank, and that Turnbull is a shit and quite possibly his murderer.’

There was a silence, and then a gasp from Primrose. ‘But he can’t be the murderer! It’s obvious that it was Castris, it all fits in. That is certainly what little Inspector Dumont thinks. I mean to say, there was all the ridiculous sexual rivalry and the quarrelling over that piddling tambourine; and when Boris made it on both counts Herbert Castris was beside himself with rage. Not surprising really – who on earth would like to be ousted by that bore! And surely the final proof was that suicide note. It was a dead giveaway – what could be more self-explanatory?’

‘Hmm … He didn’t wrap it up, did he?’ Nicholas conceded.

‘No, he didn’t. Castris was a man broken by disappointment and humiliation. Mad for revenge. And so – perhaps still hoping to win back the widow and get his hands on the tambourine – he waited for the hated rival and did him in. Afterwards, racked by guilt and unable to live with himself, he wrote the note and took his life. Obvious.’

‘So what about this letter? Are you saying Boris never sent it?’

‘I don’t know whether he sent it or not, but it merely confirms that Birtle-Figgins was a narcissistic hypocrite and that Turnbull is a nasty piece of work. But it doesn’t mean he would go so far as murder.’

‘It might if he was about to lose a nice little earner from milking those students
and
, courtesy of Boris, saw his whole professional career hanging by a thread. We know from what he said recently that he has grandiose plans to develop the language school and open branches in Paris, Holland and England. It’s a big project, and if successful likely to net him a lot of dosh. Boris only had to say the word and the whole thing would be up the spout and his future reputation in shreds. Quite a lot at stake, I should have thought.’ Nicholas paused, studying the letter again. ‘Added to which, judging from the way those bones and gnashers were strewn over the body, it looked as if the assailant had been in a bit of a paddy – the result perhaps of this charming
postscriptum
. Enough to get anyone steamed up. It’s a wonder he didn’t cut off his head as well and ram it in the casket!’

‘That’s all pretty speculative,’ said Primrose doubtfully, ‘and there’s no proof; whereas Dumont has got something tangible on Castris.’ She looked at me. ‘What do you think, Francis?’

I said nothing for a few moments, being too preoccupied trying to clarify a blurred memory nagging away at the back of my mind. For some obscure reason it had to do with the word ‘nincompoop’, one of the words Castris had used in his rather stylized note. I had seen the term somewhere else only recently.

Primrose sighed impatiently. ‘In one of your trances as usual – what Pa always used to call your “blooming brown study”.’

‘No,’ I replied slowly. ‘No, I am not in a trance, I have just thought of something … and you know, Nicholas could be spot on – except I don’t quite understand about the suicide …’

‘Yes, well, don’t keep us in suspense, there’s a good chap,’ said Ingaza cheerfully.

‘You remember when Primrose and I visited his school? Well, while we were in the office and he and Primrose were discussing her paintings and making arrangements for their shipment, I was looking at his books and some unusual figurines on the desk. He needed to jot down an address or something, because he turned and asked if I could find a pen which should be in one of the drawers. I couldn’t see anything there so started to move some of the papers on the desk top, and found one lying under a writing pad. At the time I barely registered the fact, but there were some words scribbled on the page. Naturally I didn’t give them a thought – except that
now
I suddenly remember what they were.’

‘And …?’

‘“That nincompoop has blighted all my hopes”.’

There was a silence. And then Nicholas observed, ‘My, my, you’re a right little Autolycus, aren’t you? Talk about being a “snapper up of unconsidered trifles” – Oughterard the bloodhound!’

‘Didn’t Castris say something like that in his note?’ exclaimed Primrose.

‘Exactly – and old Hawk-Eye here has made the vital connection. What do you know!’ He flashed me a mocking grin.

‘It all sounds a peculiar coincidence to me. I mean, what on earth –’ Primrose began.

‘Hardly a coincidence,’ I said. ‘I think it can mean only one thing: Castris was Turnbull’s scapegoat. He killed him to make it look like suicide – throttled him first, I suppose – and planted the note which he had already been rehearsing on that pad. Probably wanted to make sure he had the form right: it’s a bit precise and literary, typical of Castris’s written style.’

Ingaza nodded. ‘It adds up all right. Boris was putting the frighteners on Turnbull, who promptly silenced him and then went on to kill Castris as cover. This draft letter of his together with Turnbull’s jottings would seem to be pretty good proof … Besides,’ he added slyly and to my discomfort, ‘you’re the expert, old chap. Doubtless we can rely on your judgement in such matters.’

‘That is most uncalled for, Nicholas!’ Primrose protested.

‘Why ees François expert?’ asked Henri.

‘He writes detective novels in his spare time,’ she snapped.

We sat on the veranda after supper smoking feverishly. ‘So what on earth are we going to do?’ exclaimed Primrose. ‘Show Dumont the letter and tell him our suspicions?’

‘No fear,’ replied Nicholas. ‘There’s been enough trouble as it is. Let Dumont know and we shall be stuck here till hell freezes over. There’ll be no end to the questions and entanglements. We’ll have to write affidavits or even appear in court – and the longer we remain the greater the chance of our being around when they find Climp and Mullion, and then we shall have that to cope with on top of everything else … And another thing,’ he added fiercely, ‘for God’s sake don’t tell Hor. It’ll give him a stroke and we’ll be left with those two frightful harridans!’

It was one of the rare occasions when I agreed wholeheartedly with Ingaza. All I wanted now was to slip back to Molehill unknown, unseen and untroubled. I thought of the vicarage and its stolid ordinariness, a place of refuge and embalming peace. I longed to get at my piano and immerse heart and fingers in the notes of Bach and Duke Ellington; saw myself slumped with the
Times
crossword in the shabby confines of my study; could hear the sound of St Botolph’s bells floating across the graveyard, and smelt the polish on the vestry floor after it had suffered the frenzied attentions of Edith Hopgarden and her cohorts. Even the penning of an improving sermon seemed a welcome task after the recent rigours … Yes, I wanted to get back rather badly. I looked at Bouncer and wondered what he was thinking. He returned my gaze blankly, but through the gathering dusk I could just discern the slow wagging of his tail.

‘You are so right,’ I replied. ‘As Clinker said earlier, don’t let’s muddy the waters.’

Apart from Henri muttering something about Turnbull being yet another example of English perfidy, the consensus was absolute, and we turned our minds to the forthcoming funeral and the difficulties of not letting our guard slip re the Castris/Turnbull business. To my relief, Henri said that since he had never met the deceased nor his wife, he had no reason to attend the burial and would thus spend his time more profitably with his metal detector at the Fotherington Folly.

‘You do that,’ said Nicholas ‘and if you turn up some coins with that useless contraption you can buy us drinks when we get back.’

‘
Tu crois!
’ replied the curé indignantly.

‘Actually,’ said Primrose, ‘I quite like Rupert Turnbull, he’s always very affable and has an extremely discerning taste in pictures. But it’s going to feel pretty peculiar making small talk with him when one knows the truth.’

‘You talk to Francis, don’t you?’ said Nicholas.

‘Oh yes, but that’s different. He’s family.’

I was grateful for that, but could see her point. It would be awkward all right! And of course we would also have to play along with the grieving widow and try to make out that Boris was no end of a fine chap … Although on reflection I suspected that that was not necessarily her own view. I wondered if Clothilde de Vere would attend, and whether the coffin would be crowned with the troublesome tambourine. It could make quite a decorative feature laced with ribbons, lilies and autumn-flowering pansies. Perhaps too there would be a tasteful display of the reassembled bones bedecked with –

My reverie was interrupted by Primrose saying, ‘Oh Lor’, I’ve still got the key to the Folly. What shall I do with it – chuck it away?’

‘Don’t suppose it matters really,’ said Nicholas. ‘I mean, when Lavinia eventually discovers that it’s missing we shall be back in England. And I don’t imagine she would be much bothered anyway. She seems pretty vague about most things.’

‘Wait a minute,’ I broke in anxiously, ‘we can’t be too careful. Both she and Boris told us all about the swastika that evening at dinner. And who knows, perhaps now that he’s dead she might get a sudden urge to fish it out from the boot. Death focuses the mind in the oddest ways. If she can’t find the key and discovers the thing gone, when she finally gets access she might put two and two together and assume it was us. I really think you ought to put it back, Primrose.’

My sister sighed impatiently. ‘You are such a fusspot, Francis. Besides, Lavinia also told Climp and Mullion about the swastika. She will probably think it was they who whipped it. After all, they would have been
far
more likely to than us – just the types.’ She gave a superior smile.

‘But they didn’t,’ I pointed out, ‘we did – or you, rather. And although Lavinia let them know the thing was hidden in the Folly, it is highly unlikely that she mentioned the key was hanging on a hook in the wardrobe of Myrtle’s bedroom! That particular detail she helpfully revealed to you in Clermont. And vague though she is, she may just recall it.’

‘Oh really …’ Primrose grumbled.

‘Nothing like belt and braces,’ said Nicholas briskly. ‘There’s a good girl, Primrose, put the key back – it will be good practice.’

‘Practice for what?’

‘Who can tell?’ he replied enigmatically. ‘These little sleights of hand are always useful. One never knows what difficulties they may resolve.’ He gave a heavy wink.

‘Oh, all right,’ she conceded, ‘just as long as I don’t encounter Myrtle climbing out of her stays …’

The weather broke on the morning of the funeral. Up until then we had enjoyed a mild Indian summer, but now the mists came down and there was a dankness in the air redolent of autumn. The distant
puys
were blotted out and the valley below looked grey and uninviting. A classic interment day, I thought gloomily. However, I brightened at the prospect of our impending departure. Dumont had rung to say our passports would be returned by a passing gendarme, and already Ingaza was checking the Citroën and clearing the boot of the now denuded whisky crates. There was of course still the problem of Bouncer and his concealment, but as I had hoped, Georges had kindly offered to seek counsel from a veterinary friend, and it seemed likely that the poor little blighter could be sent off to the land of nod with no ill effects. Whether Primrose would be prepared to shove Maurice into her classy travelling case was another matter, but if I made the right pecuniary gestures perhaps she would …

I was impressed by the funeral service, which, given its subject, was surprisingly conventional, with the usual Anglican prayers, hymns and ritual. Knowing Boris, I had expected something fey and cock-eyed but this seemed the model of decorum and normality, and I wondered if its swift and businesslike procedure was due to the organizational powers of Turnbull rather than the hand of Lavinia. Clinker delivered a deft, even generous address, and Boris’s coffin (unadorned by either tambourine or bones) was lowered into the earth with due precision and solemnity. I am rather particular about the matter of obsequies, and in that respect the handling of Boris Birtle-Figgins’ final passage struck me as exemplary.

Solemnity over, we returned to the house for the usual bun fight. To my surprise Lavinia had laid on some caterers from Fleurville, and while there was no repeat of the earlier cocktails, there was a lavish supply of tasty French canapés and delicate
bonnes bouchées
. Gladys and Myrtle were being moderately useful in dispensing these, and it crossed my mind that while the latter was thus occupied it might be a good moment for Primrose to slip into her bedroom and return the key to its rightful place. I looked around for her to suggest this, but was caught by Clinker intent yet again on impressing upon me the need for silence regarding the Climp/Mullion affair. I assured him that he should have no qualms on that score and enquired when he expected to leave.

‘As soon as possible,’ was the answer. ‘Gladys is fractious and Myrtle talks of nothing except getting back to Brussels.’

‘But I thought she had been so keen to come here – to the Auvergne.’

‘Not any more, she isn’t,’ he replied darkly. ‘Says she wasn’t brought up to be associated with suicides and murderers or their victims, and that staying here any longer will bring social death. No, she’s champing at the bit to return to her embassy cronies. I don’t think Lavinia will encounter her again. Some people have all the luck.’ He melted away to consume some sausages on sticks.

There was a light tap on my shoulder. ‘It is very good of you to come, Canon,’ breathed Lavinia. ‘Boris would have so appreciated it.’ I mumbled some appropriate response and took stock of my hostess. It may have been a trick of the light, but she struck me as being fuller in the face, more physically animated than when I had last seen her. Although draped in black, she still wore the glittering beads that she had sported on our last visit, and her hair was swept up in a rather becoming chignon. I noticed too that her nails were painted a discreet silky pink. The result was not unattractive.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ I asked. ‘Carry on here, or do you have other plans?’

‘Oh, other plans,’ she replied emphatically, ‘but first I am going to have a little holiday. These things put one at such a low ebb. I think I need a tonic – you know, some sort of break from the norm to get my bearings as it were.’ I did know, having needed just such a respite after the Spendler débâcle
*
– but alas, thanks to DS Sidney Samson and Nicholas Ingaza, never achieved that luxury.

‘Very sensible,’ I said, in my best soothing voice.

‘Oh, but I don’t want to be sensible, that’s just it. I feel it is time I was rather
un
sensible!’ She gave a soft giggle. I was slightly taken aback by this, not used to recent widows responding with quite such liveliness. She clearly saw my surprise, for she then said, ‘But haven’t you ever wanted to behave outrageously? You know, break out from your chains – drive fast cars, go to Monte Carlo, tango till six in the morning – live
dangerously
!’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘All I have ever wanted is peace, quiet, seclusion and safety. And so far none of those has come my way.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘how sad.’ And giving me a puzzled look she drifted over to join Turnbull.

Behave outrageously? Live dangerously? Huh! She didn’t know the half of it … In some irritation, I followed Clinker’s example and moved in the direction of the sausages. Thwarted again – the bishop had scoffed the lot.

I was on the point of choosing a canapé instead, when I saw the harpist from the musical evening making a beeline towards me. Admittedly it wasn’t a dark night, merely a gloomy afternoon, but I thought it prudent to take evasive action all the same, and looked about for an outlet. Unfortunately the nearest one was Gladys. But working on the principle of better the devil you know, I walked smartly up to her and embarked on some scintillating chit-chat. She looked rather surprised as neither of us is in the habit of seeking the other out – although, at a really loose end, the bishop’s wife has been known to hold court even with curates (a practice never embraced by her sister).

‘Hmm,’ she said with her usual forthright charm, ‘I don’t know what you have to be so bright about. Personally I consider this whole holiday to have been a nightmare – not helped, I may say, by my dear sister. It was her idea in the first place. One would have done far better to stick to the Ardennes. We’ve been going there for the last thirty years and never a suicide or dead body in sight.’

I nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, it has been rather trying, and most perturbing for the bishop – just when he needed a good rest.’

‘Good rest? He does nothing but … No, Canon, it is we women who need the rest. But then that’s not something you would know about, of course.’

‘No,’ I agreed humbly, ‘perhaps it isn’t.’

‘A case in point,’ she continued, ‘being that tiresome Birtle-Figgins girl. What she has had to put up with is nobody’s business! Mind you, such a door mat – has only herself to blame, I consider.’ She frowned, looking very fierce, and not for the first time I felt mildly sorry for Clinker.

‘Er … but what did she have to put up with?’ I ventured.

‘Marital matters,’ was the terse reply. ‘Again, not something you would understand.’

I cleared my throat and tried to steer us down another route. ‘I rather gather she has plans to move elsewhere. Is she intending to leave France?’

‘I don’t know about that, but what I do know is that she is certainly giving up this awful relics business – ceasing all involvement with the hermit
and
severing her link with that monstrosity down the hill. She and Boris were sort of substitute concierges in the last few years. He thought it gave him additional status in the village. It didn’t of course, everyone hates the place.’ She stopped, rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief and blew her nose explosively. I wondered if the hiatus would give me the chance to slip away, but in the next moment she said, ‘In fact now I come to think of it, wasn’t it built by some relation of that woman who was murdered in your village? I seem to remember her name was Fotherington.’

I looked suitably vague and murmured something to the effect that I hadn’t heard of any connection, and that although the name was not particularly common, neither was it rare.

‘Hmm, perhaps not. But in any case they are going to pull it down soon – well, half of it apparently. A good thing too.’

‘
Really?
’ I was startled.

‘Yes. The locals can’t stand it – think it’s haunted. You know how superstitious these people are. Apparently the authorities have been trying to trace the owner for some time – or at least, so they say. Technically of course they need his or her permission, but with typical French pragmatism they’ve decided to demolish it first and deal with complaints later. All very high-handed no doubt … but that’s the way with the Frogs. I remember during the war when …’ She prosed on, while I felt a rush of grovelling warmth towards the French and their high-handedness.

‘So what’s going to happen to it?’

‘Assuming no claimant materializes from the woodwork, I believe they have plans to turn it into a holiday home for deprived children from the slums of Nice and Toulon. A worthy cause, naturally – though I must say if I were a local I’d be a trifle nervous. After all, you never know these days, do you? But quite a constructive idea, I suppose. Anyway, I hear the bulldozers are all ready.’